Loki

by Vasich, Mike

  The giants were faring well, too. Although their legions were not nearly as exhaustive as the dead, they still outnumbered the enemy by at least tenfold, and their size and strength—coupled with their hatred of Asgard—made them formidable foes.

  And the gods had lost many, each death causing the remaining warriors to double and redouble their efforts, to fight harder, to kill more. But they were beginning to tire. Though their power was legendary, even these gods were not tireless or invincible. They had lain waste to countless enemy armies, but never had they faced such unending and furious foes as this current onslaught.

  When Thor was killed Loki’s faint doubts fell away, and he became more certain that Asgard would be stomped from existence. He thought he should feel some regret at the death of Jormungand, but he did not; merely elation at the role his son had played in killing the Thunderer, the most powerful of all the gods. There was a very brief moment when he wondered why he felt nothing when his son’s head was lifted and tossed by the mortally wounded Thor, but it was gone almost instantly, replaced by increased savoring of the destruction being wrought before his eyes.

  The height of his rapture came when Fenrir devoured Odin, choking down bits of him while his life slowly seeped into the grass. He gave no thought to Odin’s lack of resistance, but merely delighted in the destruction. He who had banished him from Asgard, who had spurned all his contributions, now lay digesting in the gullet of his other son, who had also been wronged by One Eye. Only the deaths of Frey and Freyja could begin to compare to the gratification he felt, and as he scanned the fighting below he spied one of them locked in furious battle.

  He leaped off the bow of the ship, his body erupting into flames and streaking down to earth like a comet. As he touched down flames exploded outward, incinerating all near him, friend and foe alike. Frey, just outside the perimeter of the flames, looked up as he cut down the last of his undead attackers. Loki smiled at the thought of what was to come.

  The Vanir god waited with sword in hand as Loki approached him. All other combatants—mostly the dead of Niflheim—sensed the destruction inherent in their flaming leader, and gave the two a wide berth. They could see that this one god was being claimed by he who had brought them here, and though their consciousnesses were dim and basic, they realized that there would be repercussions should the Asgardian be claimed by other than their leader.

  “You are not as you were,” Frey said.

  Loki smiled. “I am the same—one who was banished and hounded, one who suffered for his love of Asgard. I merely return to repay the debts I owe.”

  “No,” Frey said. “It is plain that you relish this death, that your purpose has transcended revenge only and has become pure chaos and destruction. While we were never friends, there was a part of you that I admired once. And though I could see that your pride and arrogance would take you down a dark path, I could not have foreseen this. There is an evil about you.”

  “You seek to bait me,” Loki said, grinning fiercely. “I am the same, yet different as well. My will and vengeance have brought me here, but I carry one other with me, one who will ultimately spell the death of all in Asgard.”

  Frey’s eyes went wide. “Surt. Black Surt. You have brought him here.”

  Loki laughed. “I am Black Surt! I wield his power, and I will see all of you scourged from this plane!”

  Frey’s face was grimmer than before. “You are a fool. Your arrogance has doomed you. None can wield the power of Surt. You have become a vessel from which he can leave Muspelheim and spread destruction across the Nine Worlds.”

  “Perhaps,” Loki said calmly. “But that is a destruction you will never see.” With a gesture, Frey’s sword erupted in roaring flames. His hand and arm burned black, he hissed in agony, dropping the weapon to the ground.

  Frey closed his eyes and began to speak the mystic runes, but he was silenced when Loki’s flaming hand grabbed his throat. Instinctively, Frey brought his hands up to wrench the grip loose, but was rewarded with seared flesh. His breath would not come, but even worse was the sizzling of his skin around the throat, the flames creeping up his face, now setting his hair alight.

  Loki grew larger, lifting Frey off his feet and dangling the agonized god. Slowly his entire body was engulfed in flames and he tried to scream, but Loki’s iron grip on his throat would not allow it. After long minutes, his flesh bubbling and blackened, he ceased struggle and lie limp in Loki’s hand. He threw Frey’s charred, lifeless body down onto the ground, still smoking. He turned to see Odin’s own corpse nearby.

  He walked over to the dead Allfather, intent on savoring the pain that Fenrir had caused in the final moments of his life. As he bent down to stare into the face, Odin’s one eye flew open.

  Loki jerked back. How could he still be alive? This husk of a god, half-devoured and lacking most of his insides, unbelievably survived. Recovering from his initial shock, he realized that even if he still lived, it would not be for long. He decided that he would allow One Eye to remain alive while the remainder of Asgard was destroyed so he could see what his decisions had wrought.

  He glanced away, only to hear a faint murmuring. He turned back and saw that Odin’s mouth moved, and his eye beckoned him forward. He leaned down to come face to face with him. He was caught by something in Odin's eye, a sense of depth. He stared into it and, as when he had stared into the depths of the Well of Urd so long ago, he saw swirling mists that slowly began to take shape. Despite the carnage that still occurred around him, despite the revenge that had been satisfied by the slaughter of the Aesir, he could not banish the curiosity he felt as he stared at the unfolding scene in Odin's eye.

  It felt as if he were drawn into the eye itself, that he was witnessing some event unfold in front of him. No longer was he hovering above the near-corpse of his once-father; he now saw three distinct shapes forming before him, two large and one small.

  The shapes began to form specific features: arms, legs, and finally faces. He did not recognize them as faces he had ever seen in his life, but there was no doubting the familiarity. One shape had formed into a man of about his own size and appearance. He was handsome and well-formed, but the unmistakable signs of fear were spread across his face. The second shape formed into a woman, beautiful but terrified, and she clutched the third shape—a small child still young enough to suckle.

  They were in a dark, enclosed space, and it was clear from the way they huddled together that they were hiding from something on the outside. A door formed and was violently opened. The figure that stood silhouetted in the doorway was absurdly small, about the size of the child, but thin and not of the right proportions to be a child. Loki was confused for only a moment before he realized that the man, woman, and child were giants, and this intruder was not.

  The child began to cry, a high-pitched wailing that the woman tried to stifle without success. The small figure in the doorway radiated fear and death, and Loki could feel the waves emanating from him even though he knew this was nothing more than the shade of a scene long past. The figure stepped into the dim light of the room, and his face could be seen.

  He did not look the same as he did now. The skin was smoother and without lines. The beard was shorter and less gray. And even though he was thin, Loki would not have described him as wizened and gaunt. Yet the deathly glint in the one eye was unmistakable, as was the bloody spear Gungnir, clutched tightly in his hand.

  Odin was clad in blood-drenched armor, and Loki could just barely make out the outlines of what appeared to be bodies piled up behind him before that part of the scene went dark. He lifted his free hand and pointed at the two. He did not speak, but Loki did not need to hear words to know his intent. The woman turned away from him, exposing her back but adopting the posture of a mother protecting her child. The man took a step forward, standing between Odin and the woman and child. Odin gestured toward the child, and Loki could see the defiance on the giant's face.

  He hefted Gungnir and threw the spea
r with full force. It pierced the giant and his woman and pinned them to the wall. The man hung dead on Gungnir's shaft, but the woman, stuck between husband and wall, still clung to life, but only just. Blood flowed from her mouth, and she attempted to keep her grip on the child, but her strength was rapidly fading.

  Odin walked up to her and held his hands out for the child, who slipped from his mother's dying arms. The child was nearly as large as Odin himself, but he had no trouble holding it. He set it down on the ground at his feet and opened the swaddling around its head. He knelt down and stared into the child's eyes, and as he did so, he carved glowing symbols into the air with his finger while chanting the sacred runes.

  The child's wailing slowed and then eventually ceased. As he continued to chant, the child, still staring up at Odin, grew smaller and smaller, until eventually he was no longer a giant. Odin scooped him up with one hand and gave him a last look before turning to the door and heading out the way he had come, the scene fading as he went.

  Back on Asgard, Loki felt a stab in his gut. Deep in the recesses of his memory he remembered that scene. He remembered staring up at a face with only one eye, and he remembered feeling comforted. It was his first memory, and one that he had clung to, one that he had hung his service to Odin upon. His first memory was of looking up at the face of the Allfather and feeling a sense of protection and safety.

  And it was a lie.

  The one who had adopted him as his own, the one who had raised him and guided him for countless ages, was the one who had murdered his true parents. He had sought them out specifically, had sought him out. Odin had slaughtered his parents and the entire village just so he could take Loki to Asgard.

  Rage intensifying Surt's flames, Loki reached down and grabbed hold of Odin’s hair. Putting one foot on the ragged remains of his chest, he ripped the head loose and held it up to his face at arm’s length. He stared with unvented fury at this despoiler and manipulator.

  Odin’s eye was still open, and his mouth still moved. Loki was certain that the mumblings were incoherent tracts of agony, but he let the head hang there, savoring the anguished look.

  “Bastard,” he said. “Why did you do it? Why take me from my kind only to throw me back like a dog? Is this the result you wanted? All of your kind are dead or dying, and Asgard will be burned to cinders. Is this what you foresaw would happen? You alone are responsible for this. Your twisted schemes have caused the death of all that you knew. I only wish that at least one of the Aesir lived so that he might see how foul you truly are.”

  Odin's mumblings looked repetitive, as if he were saying the same word over and over again. Loki could not quite make it out, however. Bringing the head closer to him, he said, “What is it you are trying to say, One Eye? What final words could you possibly have for me now?”

  Odin’s mouth stopped, and the eye fixed on some distant point beyond Loki. Amazingly, the head smiled as it refocused its attention back on him. It opened its mouth just once more, saying one definitive word that Loki clearly heard.

  Loki narrowed his eyes, wondering why Odin would say that one word. He said it out loud himself, reflexively, feeling it on his tongue: “Heimdall? Why would you—”

  Loki felt pushed forward, his breath forced out in one violent burst. Still clutching Odin’s head, he looked down to see an arm’s length of sword sticking out of his chest. He turned his head, each slight movement sending flares of sharp pain through him, but desperate to see the face of his attacker.

  The sword was pushed even deeper, and he caught one fleeting glimpse of Heimdall’s blood-streaked face before the sword was wrenched upward with all the strength the Guardian of Bifrost could muster. The blade slid upward, racking bone and rending innards, and continued in its path with increased violence, cleaving Loki’s neck and then, finally, his head, brains spilling out as the sword flew out the top of his fractured skull.

  There was no time to savor the death of his enemy, however. Before Loki’s brains could even strike the ground, Black Surt was released, and there was a massive explosion of fire that flared outward in an instant. Heimdall and Odin’s remains were the first to burn, to be followed by all those in the immediate vicinity who were instantly incinerated. The fire swept out in broad, recursive waves, each one stronger than the one before, Surt’s power growing with each life claimed, with each act of individual destruction.

  In a matter of seconds, all life on the grassy plain was extinguished—the dead of Niflheim turned to ash and cinders, the flesh of all the giants was roasted and charred before disintegrating and falling to the ground, the Asgardians and their allies who remained—few though they were—were hardy, and did not die easily, which only prolonged their suffering, but they were not spared. Fenrir, even then ripping throats and limbs from enemies, was transformed into a ball of furred flame, roasted alive and howling in agony before finally succumbing.

  The tall spires of Asgard were first blown apart by the concussive force of the onrushing fire before the timber and stone ignited and burned the realm to ashes. Beyond the city itself, the forests roared with flame, and the denizens of those woods were burned alive where they stood.

  The fire continued to spread, offering respite to none. Alfheim burned, Vanaheim burned, Bifrost shattered in flames. Nor were the higher realms the only casualties. Midgard was not spared, and every mountain, every structure, every tree, every mortal thing on that middle world was turned to cinders. The dwarfs in Nidavellir naively thought themselves safe in their mountain strongholds, but their caves acted like ovens, and the entire race perished. The dark elves in Svartalfheim used their considerable magic and sorcery to protect themselves and their land, but the all-consuming might of Surt was not to be denied.

  Sitting on her throne in Niflheim, Hel soberly weighed her mistake. She had known Surt would destroy Asgard—indeed, this was why she had sent Loki to him—but she had not realized the extent of his power. The fiery death reigning in the realms above sent no new souls to her; its consumption was complete and total, an utter destruction of body and spirit. Niflheim was empty save for her alone. She had sought out Balder after she felt Loki’s death, but he was not to be found.

  She pondered only a moment on the impossibility of him breaking free from her, but found that her attention was diverted by the wave of heat and light that began to rip through her realm. Looking out her high window, she saw that Niflheim’s mist and darkness were gone. Every crag and black valley, every dark river and lake, were lit up as if the sun itself hung directly overhead. And then she was gone as a wall of flame that dwarfed her hall swept her and all she knew away into oblivion.

  Epilogue

  The flames died down after a time, when they had consumed all that they could consume and naught was left but ash. The Nine Worlds were no more: Asgard, Vanaheim, Alfheim, the upper realms; Midgard, Nidavellir, Svartalfheim, Jotunheim, the realms in the middle; Niflheim, the underworld; and Muspelheim, the realm of fire and destruction that touched on all the other realms. All had been destroyed; only one remnant of the Nine Worlds had survived.

  Yggdrasil was badly blackened and charred, but it still stood. The tree that always was and always will be had not been claimed by the fire. It could not, however, continue on without any life to feed it. Even while the ashes smoldered, it sent out its roots far and wide, gathering all that remained, using whatever life had been destroyed to create anew. Land reformed above its roots, spreading out as far as could be seen.

  From high atop its branches, it sent seedlings floating throughout the new world that was being created. Wherever a seed landed it burrowed its way down into the newly-created soil, and a sprout appeared. In time, these sprouts would grow into trees and vines of their own, lending their strength and life to the land around them.

  Its highest leaves, dancing amongst the heavens, floated off and formed clouds in the dark sky, clouds which sent gentle rains across the land, dampening the few remaining fires and sending life-giving rivulets into th
e soil to nurture the new sprouts that had recently arisen.

  Yggdrasil then released those who had been nestled inside it, safe from the flames. Their numbers were few, and their confusion and fear were great, but both those things would change in time. The important thing was that life would begin anew, that Yggdrasil would continue to preside over the universe as it always had.

  Freyja walked across the fresh, new grass, reveling in the softness of the tender shoots. She reached the edge of the cliff and stared out across the sea. The water was bluer than any water she had seen before, and she could feel the spray of the waves as they crashed against the cliff walls below. Her feelings were mixed, as ever.

  There had not been much time yet to adjust to this new world, and she longed for those who were gone forever, but she could not help her feelings of awe and bliss at seeing a new world created right before her eyes, of every day seeing something that had not existed before made anew by Yggdrasil. She would not have thought it before, but she was humbled by the presence of this entity that was greater than the gods themselves. She felt blessed to be a part of this rebirth.

  Soft footsteps behind made her turn her head slightly, but she had no need to see to know who approached her.

  “Are the seas wider than they were yesterday?” Balder said, warm curiosity and anticipation in his voice.

  “Stand next to me and see for yourself, my lord.”

  He laughed softly as he took his place next to her. “There is little need for titles here. We are gods no more.”